Coreene Callahan - Knight Avenged

GREY KEEP: AL PACII STRONGHOLD—AD 1331

Halál bolted upright in bed, a shout locked in the back of his throat. Gasping, he clawed at his bare chest, then looked down to see the damage. No blood. No gaping wound. No mark at all. Disbelief slithered in, coiling with ominous intent. Lucifer be merciful. It had felt so real. So bloody real —the slash, the pain, the warm trickle of his own blood. Pressing one hand over his heart, he fisted the other in the blanket. Rough wool scraped his palm as he sucked in another lungful of air. It didn’t help. He couldn’t catch his breath. Or think straight. Not while vivid imagery swirled inside his head and . . .

A tremor rumbled through him.

Damnation. A dream . . .

The dream.

It had shifted into something dangerous. Something darker. Drifting toward something he could no longer identify.

Another shiver rattled down his spine. Gaze riveted to the timber beam ceiling, Halál fell back onto one elbow. His bones creaked. Muscles stiff with age groaned in protest as his forearm sank into the feather mattress. Sweat beading on his chest, he shifted focus and scanned the room. Rough stone walls. Heavy wood door with the iron lock engaged. A dying fire hissed in the widemouthed hearth. The familiar arrangement grounded him. Still in the heart of night. Still safe inside his own room. Still surrounded by strength and the walls of Grey Keep.

No need to be alarmed.

Halál frowned, knowing that wasn’t true. There was much to fear. Even more reason to be cautious. The return of his dream said it all. More than he wanted to acknowledge. And yet, he couldn’t let it go, never mind exorcise the demons. Ignoring the latest version of the nightmare wouldn’t be wise considering what it signaled . . .

Change on an infinite scale.

Not a good sign. His sleep visions were never wrong.

Unease swirled through him, ratcheting his tension up another notch. Halál snarled softly in disdain. Be damned, he didn’t want change. He liked the status quo along with his current mission as leader of the Al Pacii nation: Abduct more strong boys. Fill the Al Pacii ranks. Train the most promising until Grey Keep teemed with warrior assassins and Halál’s stranglehold on Transylvania tightened. Power. Glory. His coffers full of the European kings’ coin and entire nations kneeling at his feet. The ultimate test of his prowess as a warlord—invincibility in the minds of his prey. He would be untouchable.

A harbinger of death. Revered and feared by one and all.

Halál huffed, enjoying the symmetry. ’Twas a worthy goal. Something to be proud of, but only if he succeeded—an outcome he began to question more with each passing day. And especially after tonight. Devil take him, the dream . . .

The dream.

It taunted him without end, showing him snippets but not the details. Every time he went to sleep, he received another piece of the puzzle. Morsels of information. Tonight, the visual riddle had ended with his chest being torn wide open. The who, when, and why, however, evaded him. How would it come to pass? With a blade held by one of his assassins? A sneak attack? An uprising among the Al Pacii ranks to overthrow him?

All good questions. None of which he could answer.

A pity in more ways than one.

Distraction from his primary goal wasn’t an option. Not with The Seven—a group of former Al Pacii assassins—breathing down his neck. The crafty bastards stalked him like a pack of wolves: killing his men, interrupting supply lines, stealing potential Al Pacii inductees before the boys could reach Grey Keep. Releasing his grip on the blanket, Halál shook his head. So cunning. So skilled. Far too reckless and brutal. Henrik and his cohorts would never relent. Or bow to his command . . . ever again. Halál knew that now. The reality of it made regret rise. ’Twas a double-damned travesty.

Particularly since The Seven’s prowess would be missed.

With a sigh, he flipped the covers back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. As his bare feet touched down on cold stone, he gripped the mattress edge and stared across the chamber into the fireplace beyond. Flames burning low, orange embers glowed like cats’ eyes in the gloom. From the size of the coals, he knew it was well past midnight. The wee hours—where the darkness was blackest and night’s menace thickest.

His favorite time of all.

Taking a deep breath, he allowed his eyes to drift closed and listened. The wind moaned, the rush low and pitiful as it pushed past mountain peaks to reach the great walls surrounding Grey Keep. A perilous hiss played a soft accompaniment. Halál glanced to the right. His gaze narrowed on the cage sitting on a table across the room. Hinges squeaked as the steel door swung wider. His heart picked up a beat. And then another, slamming against the inside of his breastbone, making his temples throb. Each movement slow and measured, he turned toward the table and . . .

The door to the viper’s enclosure stood wide open.

His mouth curved. Exhilaration followed, drowning caution beneath a wave of satisfaction. Such a superb turn of events. An interesting twist wrapped up in a lethal game of hide-and-seek. Scanning the shadows, Halál pushed to his feet. He needed to be moving—able to shift quickly when the snake slithered into view. Cunning for her kind, Beauty enjoyed the hunt too much to ever back down. Or show an ounce of mercy. She would strike fast and sink her fangs deep instead. Leave him with little defense as she filled him with poison and left him for dead.

No doubt his adversary’s intention.

Beauty’s escape was no accident. Someone had unlocked and opened the cage door. Which meant one thing. One of his assassins sought to kill him. Slowly. With his own snake.

Halál hummed in appreciation. Pride surfaced along with the pleasure. Finally. At last. A worthy opponent. An assassin willing to use creative means to relieve him of command. ’Twas a good sign, one that gave him hope for Al Pacii’s future. He wouldn’t be around forever and the Order of Assassins needed a strong leader. A man willing to do what was necessary—like mastermind a power play to eliminate him, clearing the way for a change in the ranks. All without raising a blade against him . . .

Or getting his hands dirty.

With a grace that belied his age, Halál shifted away from the bed. Bare feet brushing over the flagstone floor, he searched the shadows again: under tables and chairs, in each corner of the chamber. He caught sight of Beauty in his periphery. Black scales gliding across stone, she slithered under the bed behind him.

“My Beauty,” he whispered, preparing for the attack.

The viper’s tongue flicked out. She curled the forked tip, searching for his scent in the air, then drew it back in, and retreated on a smooth glide. Slithering into a coil, her horned head shifted to one side, as though preparing to strike, but . . .

Beauty stayed still and silent instead, the orange glow of firelight reflecting in her eyes.

Halál frowned. Strange. Not like her at all. She should have struck by now.

“Come, lovely,” he said, coaxing her. “Be bold. Show me your secrets.”